Dah

listening to infinity
, which is
neither here nor there .

in the land of fear
or thoughts
, the voices are repetitive .

i see time passing
, feeling its dead weight
in my hands
, mocking my bones .

i’ve heard this before
: nothing remains
lit up

beneath a dead body there is,
also, a dead shadow. the dead
are broken. to go underground
is obedience. to not remember
is to say somebody forgot to
speak. there are days when no
-body speaks or listens. when
nobody prays. when nobody
feels like themselves. -selves
are afraid of holes in the sky.
the decay of living in loneliness
or from not living. to say dis-
tracted is to imagine waiting
for the rain to turn to snow.
if there were a lake it would
crash like a cymbal in winter.
if i were a cymbal i’d wait for
thunder. eyes refusing to see th
-e lightning. what if the shadow
beneath the dead body were st
-ill alive?

Everything is plastic
which can be bright or dark
You can sit on it or
stand on it or fuck it
but it’s still plastic
with some of it
like milk white spackling

In life, everyone gathers plastic,
plastic politics, plastic religions,
plastic media, plastic philosophies,
plastic socializing, with all of it
bankrupting our spirits

We are becoming hard plastic
like the Invisible Man or
Woman and when we fuck
we’ll produce Invisible Babies
with plastic hunger

and the Invisible Babies will give
plastic advice on how
to wrap the world in a more
durable plastic or how
to construct
a state-of-the-art heaven
with a respected plastic god

Darkness grows gray
then bright
then dark
again turning gray

We are two parts of gray’s polarities:
the simple and complex,
the sound, soundless,
black, white

I sense everything is beginning:
the before-world, after-world
the open entrance, closed entrance

My thoughts have become something else’s thoughts
because I never know what I’m thinking or worse, why
was I thinking it?

I want to be ordinary, mundane, a basic pebble
an empty soul with no opinion
I hear talking inside my head
but it’s not my voice:

Every cloud quivers to be rain
every rain falls to be an ocean
every ocean becomes a cloud

I answer without thinking:
Yes. No. But never maybe

Should I speak or should I listen?

I know you’re somewhere.
Not here. Ceaseless. A slit,
a tear. Those sheer
appearances. Fast. Viral,
see-through. Constant. You.

Between our world: the mid
-point: living tissue. Gifted lips
to shoulders. Sketching: heart
–beat to beat: beast of lovers:
human offerings: puja.

Consciousness streams,
slips: frail. Temporal.
All the magic: in disarray:
in your absence:
my heart can do no less.

editors note: In the giving of worth, our offerings are scattered magic, designed to please (or appease). – mh clay

It starts to cloud, heavy gray clouds
then begins to rain
Drops the length of drumsticks

The tin roof on a beach shack
is a tight percussive skin
that rises off-pitch
Dune grasses sway
to the drumming
flap to the beat
The waves applaud

We take refuge in the shack
The storm crashes against the walls

We sleep or should I say dream only
She, a starfish, I, a gray line
Starfish floats, gray line catches

Huddled together on a wooden cot
surrounded by sand, salt, storm
She, a starfish, I, a gray line
I lift her to taste the sea
a clam floats over my tongue
I lift her higher
tasting more of the sea

Until it comes from you
there’s no light
only doubt
which befalls
a disquiet
of uncertainties

As the world dies
I believe the universe lies
even as astronomers
connect new planets
to dazzling stars
black holes intensify

I turn to an aching
unconsciousness
to a radiance emerging
out of reach
to life’s iron crust
grinding our breath

All things are invasions
of celestial planes
by lusting after
wobbling
guiding suns
Black holes breathe

Life is a bottleneck
we squeeze through
choreographed
by ego clinging to
whatever
Eternity means

Perception is based on
light’s variations
or one’s point of focus

Something clear
is a glass wing
or a cracked pane

Somebody says
the burnt eyes of noon
are chilly

The first snowflakes
are deep sleep
or a masquerade

The faraway blue
is drifting liquid
or a baker’s glaze

At night
everything starlit
is contagiously dark

Perception is clever
in its ways of leading us
to what we want to believe